Two Can Play At That Game
by RainThestral93
Summary: Sherlock can't think straight and when John jokingly prescribes a massage as a remedy, the last thing he expects is that he'll get taken up on his offer. Two men in extremely close proximity, and with a staggering amount of sexual tension between them, I wonder what could possibly happen next? Read on to find out...


**Disclaimer:** I'm not the genius behind BBC Sherlock nor Arthur Conan Doyle's original creation, although I wish I was. Kudos to you Steven Moffat for having such a brilliant mind.  
**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's day, I guess. Bit of Johnlock angst because let's face it writing/reading FanFiction is better than doing anything that's actually important. Enjoy - and please leave me a review it'd mean a lot :) - Beth

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called, as he entered the flat, grocery bags in tow. He found Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, staring out into the distance as if in a trance, with his legs crossed almost as if he was meditating. John's return from the local shops went completely unnoticed, until he had unpacked the shopping, clearing a space in the fridge for the milk amongst a plate of fingers that he'd asked Sherlock three times to move, now, and put the kettle on to boil.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, "When did you go out?"

"About an hour ago," John chuckled. "What's wrong?"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock's brow creased. "But I'm all tense, can't seem to think."

"Why's that?"

"Don't you think if I knew then it wouldn't be a problem?" Sherlock remarked blithely. It was a good job that John had a thick skin – he really could be quite rude to him sometimes.

"You should get yourself a masseuse," John announced half-jokingly.

"There's only one person that I would let within a foot of me and that's you. I'm hardly going to let some stranger put their hands all over me," Sherlock scorned, shivering in discomfort at the idea.

"I'm not giving you a massage, Sherlock," John chuckled – nervous laughter; because for the past few weeks, all John had been able to think about were the sculpted plains of Sherlock's torso, imagining the feel of running his hands over the detective's chest, trailing kisses down … he snapped himself out of it. It did him no good to fantasise about his flatmate; especially when the feelings clearly weren't reciprocated.

"Please, John," Sherlock pretended to pout, "I'll do the washing up for a week?"

"Sherlock last time you tried to wash up you flooded the flat. I don't think that's a good idea."

"I'll go the shops for a month?" He countered, and again, John laughed.

"The last three times you went out to buy milk, twice you got distracted by a case and the other time you came back with ice cream instead of milk."

Sherlock pouted. "Fine. Leave me to sulk, then."

John contemplated his options carefully; for when Sherlock sulked, he was very good at it, and would most likely be insufferable for a very long period of time. He sighed. "Fine, I'll give you a massage," he chuckled.

Sherlock grinned, and undid his dressing gown to reveal a plain white t-shit and cotton lounge pants underneath. John swallowed, nervously. He'd pictured this in his head for weeks at a time, and had never envisaged a situation would arise where Sherlock Holmes would ask for a massage.

"Lay down, then," John bossed, sounding far more confident than he felt. His stomach was turning somersaults, and his heart was skipping at an alarming rate. He hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice that – but he didn't miss much, he sighed, so he probably already had. But he hadn't said anything, and that must mean something.

For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes did as he was told, and lay down, stomach first, on the battered sofa of 221B.

"D'you want me to take my shirt off?" He asked, his voice even, not giving anything away. As was always the case, when it came to Sherlock. John paused in thought; yes he did want Sherlock to take his shirt off – but he didn't want to seem too eager, he might scare Sherlock off. He shrugged.

"You can if you want," he told him, and unhesitatingly, Sherlock whipped his shirt off his head, revealing a chiselled, and surprisingly sculpted torso – a product of running all over London chasing criminals, John suspected. John's breath momentarily hitched in his throat – and he was thankful when Sherlock returned to laying down stomach-down on the sofa.

"I'm going to have to straddle you, is that OK?" he admitted, somewhat embarrassed, feeling his heart racing at fifty thousand beats a minute. Sherlock shrugged, his shoulder muscles rolling, sending an involuntary shiver of pleasure throughout John's body. He really had it bad, John thought to himself.

"You can straddle me any time you want, 'John," Sherlock grinned into the cushion his face was pressed into. John could sense the playful edge to his voice – a tone that he hadn't heard coming out of Sherlock's mouth before. It was almost like they were _flirting_ – but that was impossible, right? A large grin overtook John Watson's face.

"Don't be cheeky, Sherlock," John chuckled, scraping his nails down his subject's back as a warning as to what one received when the misbehaved.

"Bloody hell, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, "If you wanted to play rough then all you had to do was say." John nearly came right then and there, but Sherlock simply collapsed in peals of laughter, finding his own joke hilarious.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, John thought to himself.

"Sherlock, do you want me to do this or not?" He scolded, half-heartedly.

Sherlock Holmes stopped laughing immediately, like a berated school boy.

John had to purse his lips, trying to supress the smile that was drawing at the corners of his mouth. He liked having Sherlock underneath him, having this newfound sense of power.

Sherlock grumbled an apology. "Sorry, John."

"Apology accepted," now it was John's turn to grin. There was something about being in charge he had always liked – not that he was given much opportunity to call the shots, being friends with Sherlock Holmes – and even now he felt confident despite being acutely aware of the close proximity of their skin. "Just shut up, OK. Breathe deeply, in, then out. If I do something that's uncomfortable, say, this is by no means an attempt to torture you –it's meant to be nice, OK?"

"Wow, John," Sherlock retorted sarcastically, "You're really selling your skills as a masseuse here." John shot a withering glare at him, which was received by his back, and he hoped that the detective could feel the weight of his gaze prickling his skin. Because it was Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake, he probably could.

Sherlock took a deep breath, nodding, and placed his head down on the cushion in front of him, his arms either side of his head. John practically glowed as his hands wandered over the course of the detective's sculpted figure. He found himself having to steady his _own_ breathing, as he massaged Sherlock's back and arms; rubbing and rolling his skin between his palms.

A few moments into the massage, Sherlock let out a deep moan, and John's ego did a triple summersault inside him – focusing on the sweet spot he had just hit, and found Sherlock Holmes melting into a puddle of pleasure beneath him. He was elated. Without thinking, he found his hands wandering lower; trailing sensually down Sherlock's lower back and easing the tension that his partner in crime clearly felt. John felt Sherlock tense beneath him, as his hands wandered even further south.

"Sorry," he muttered apologetically, moving his hands away from the line of Sherlock's cotton pyjama bottoms. Sherlock shook his head into the pillow, having apparently lost all sense of coherent thought, and made a grumbling noise.

A wry smile tugged at John's lips as he was ordered to go "anywhere you want, Sergeant, you're the boss". Sherlock Holmes rendering control to another human being? That'd be the day, chuckled John, before he was snapped right back into the present, by a certain twitching from between his legs. He swallowed nervously. Sherlock could probably feel the effect this massage was having on him, but from the noises that he'd been making moments before it was pretty clear to John that they were getting as much pleasure out of this as one another. Then six glorious words were uttered by Sherlock, and John felt like he'd died and gone to heaven.

"Free reign is all yours, John."

Smirking, John balled up his fists, placing the flat of his knuckles onto Sherlock's back, and with a certain degree of pressure, kneading the supple flesh. He allowed his hands to trail further, this time, not stopping at the line of the offending item of clothing.

John splayed his palms out over his buttocks, not lingering for too long, and then his hands then trailed down to Sherlock's legs, massaging his thighs and easing the tension in his shins. Avoiding his feet – for both John and Sherlock had particular aversion to feet, he happened to know – he made his way back up the length of Sherlock's lower body, easing knots and dissipating the tension as if he had been born to do it. As his palms grazed the man's lower thighs he felt Sherlock shudder beneath him, and a low moan came out of his mouth – voluntarily or not; John couldn't quite tell. By now his ego was a supersonic blur, and he found himself feeling more daring than ever, as his hands trailed back up the length of his bare torso, like he had done over and over in his daydreams. It was a million times better than he imagined. Leaning forward with the movement of his hands, spurred on by the reaction he was provoking in Sherlock, John leant over once he reached the nape of Sherlock's neck and bent over him, seductively.

"Feel good?" John's tone was teasing and had just the right element of playfulness to make light of the situation – nothing too serious. Sherlock couldn't even manage a coherent response, instead he just let out another low moan, as John squeezed the knots between his shoulder blades.

"Thinking any clearer, yet?" John asked feigning mock innocence, knowing full well the response he was provoking in Sherlock – as well as himself. He raked his fingernails down the length of Sherlock's torso, and Sherlock groaned, arching his back to meet John's touch as he writhed in pleasure beneath him.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was currently being tortured. He may not have been hung upside down in a medieval dungeon by shackles – but it was the same principle. With the way John's hands swept the length of his figure, expertly plying his skin, and knowing all the right places to touch, his skin was on fire. And so was his groin.

When John had innocently – or perhaps not so innocently, Sherlock contemplated, for he certainly seemed to know what he was doing – squeezed his thighs, that had been it. He could feel his arousal pressing into the sofa, and if he rolled over, then John would know exactly how much of an effect he was having on his flatmate.

Now there was an idea. He growled, and immediately, John retracted hands.

"Sorry!" He hurried, seeming worried, "Did I hurt you?"

Sherlock made up his mind instantaneously, and before John could say another word, he had flipped the both of them over so that he was hovering above John. His dominant nature had won the battle over the pleasure he'd been giving into so far, and he found himself pinning John's wrists unconsciously, so that he couldn't wriggle out of his grip and go find something else to do with his time. Not that Sherlock suspected he wanted to; what with his ragged breathing, dilated pupils (clear sign of arousal) and then there was the rather more obvious … bulge. Sherlock smirked, wickedly.

Sherlock looked down at John curiously, noting with pleasure that the fiery glint that he was sure was present in his own eyes, was also present in his. They were glazed over with want, with longing, and Sherlock would readily admit to not being quite sure what that meant. John looked up at him, his blue eyes wide and questioning, as if wondering innocently what had brought about the change in his demeanour.

Sherlock wouldn't readily volunteer this information to just anyone, but he was extremely turned on. And so was John, if the bulge in his jeans was anything to go by, he thought to himself, after an accidental buck of hips in their struggle meant they made contact.

Some part of John enabled him to rediscover the ability to speak – something which Sherlock hadn't quite managed. "Were you not enjoying the massage?" He teased, knowing full well that the detective had been in his element.

Sherlock shot John a disparaging look – fuck, of course he was, and he knew that. Stupid man was going to make him admit it, wasn't he? Why did he have to be such a conniving know-it-all, he sighed, too turned on to laugh at the irony of that statement.

"Of course," he smirked, "You know I was… but there's a better way of cheering me up that would benefit both of us at the same time," Sherlock remarked pointedly.

John's eyes widened, clearly surprised at Sherlock's bluntness. Everyone always assumed he was a virgin, after all. "Oh?" John questioned, an edge of nervousness in his voice that made Sherlock resolve to take things a little slower. "What's that?" His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

Instead of hesitating for a moment longer, in a bout of confidence, Sherlock leant in, and captured John's mouth in a fierce kiss, spurred on by lust, by want, by longing.

John had pictured this moment a thousand times over in his head; but the real thing far surpassed his expectations, and he found himself like putty under Sherlock's touch. Finally, after a few blissful and heated minutes, Sherlock released John's lips – them both breathing heavily. John, as soon as he had regained his breath – for they had only really broken apart out of a necessity for oxygen – tried to tug Sherlock down for another kiss, but Sherlock shook his head, looking pensive.

What he was about to say next could quite possibly ruin the moment altogether. "Wait, John," he instructed, "I need to tell you something."

The doctor raised an eyebrow quizzically, indicating for him to go on.

"Just so you know this whole thing was kind of on purpose on my part…" Sherlock trailed off, a blush flushing across his cheeks and revealing his embarrassment. An entirely new sensation, indeed. He hastily amended his statement as he looked at the deluge of emotions that had suddenly flooded into John's eyes. "You're not an experiment, John… you're so much more than that. And I've wanted that, this," he gestured between them, "To happen for so long now. I was just sick of you waiting to make a move." It had taken a large proportion of Sherlock Holmes' limited humility to be able to choke out that last sentence.

John remained completely stock still, trapped underneath Sherlock as he attempted to process the words that Sherlock has blurted out in a very Un-Sherlock-esque manner.

He stared up at Sherlock, dumbfounded. "You mean you did this on purpose?" His tone was surprised more than anything – and Sherlock thanked whatever non-existing deity that John didn't seem angry. "You mean you tried to seduce me?" John was laughing now.

He shrugged, not really knowing what to say.

"Holy fuck," grinned John, "What happened to being "married to your work"?" John teased. "I never pegged you as the adulterer sort."

"We both decided we'd see other people," Sherlock retorted with a smirk, reaching down to push a lock of hair out of John's hair. They stayed like that, looking at each other – not analysing, simply regarding, for a few moments.

Sherlock broke the silence. "Wait," he asked, confused, "So you don't have a problem with any of that?"

John rolled his eyes. "I sincerely doubt that if I had a problem with your latest admission that I'd be lying underneath you, having sinful thoughts about what I'd like to do to you, with a steel hard erection," he grinned at the look of shock that flitted across Sherlock's face. "You like me, I like you. It's as plain as simple as that Sherlock – and after this I hardly think the two of us can deny that we've got chemistry. But what do you want this to mean for us?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat – in the midst everything that had been going on, he hadn't been expecting to be dealt the hand of cards. He shrugged, opting for nonchalance.

John continued after his non-committed answer.

"Well if it's OK with you Sherlock, I don't think we're the lovey-dovey cuddling on the sofa type." They both laughed at the sheer notion. "But I can't go back to being friends, after, well, this," John nodded to the small gap between them, and once again his eyes were drawn to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock nodded. "You're like a drug, John," he remarked as if that was a completely normal analogy, "Now I've got you in my system there's no way I'm giving you up without a fight."

"Yeah?" John's voice was surprised, but a good surprised. This morning was definitely going better than either men could have anticipated. Then again Sherlock probably had this scene planned down to the last infinitesimal detail; because that was the kind of thing that he did. John smiled. "So what are we then, friends with benefits?"

Sherlock winced at the term, but cocked his head. "Fuck buddies." John's eyes widened in shock. Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Well everyone seems to think we're sleeping together, anyway."

"That's true," John laughed. The preposition alone sounded filthy, dirty even. But then again it was Sherlock Holmes offering him the free access to his lips – something which he had been fantasizing about for months now. John Watson couldn't resist.

"So between me and you, yes?"

Sherlock reached down for John's hands, and interlaced their fingers in a surprisingly intimate gesture.

"You and me, John. Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock…" he rolled the words around in his mouth, and they sounded comfortable together. Familiar, even.

"Johnlock," John chuckled, and Sherlock groaned. "I'm guessing this is a secret, then, us. I don't really see us telling Harry… or Mycroft?" He laughed at the idea.

Sherlock paused in thought. "I suspect Mycroft will cotton on before long. But we can have some fun before then," he grinned suggestively, already lowering his lips to John's.

"Well," John breathed huskily as Sherlock's lips loomed closer, "I'm glad we've cleared that up."

"Mhmm," Sherlock murmured, seeming entranced by the lips of the man below him. "Me too." He captured John's mouth in another passionate kiss; responding hungrily, as they battled for dominance, John raking his fingers against his bare chest, eliciting a sultry moan from Sherlock. Sherlock retaliated by trailing kisses down the length on John's neck, marking the skin with the possessive marks that spoke of teenage years and mischief behind the netball courts. His fingers tugged at John's hair, drawing him closer to him, and their mouths plied one another, orchestrating the perfect symphony. Grinning against each other's lips, they broke apart, needing air.

"Wow," exclaimed John, touching two fingers to his lips as if he couldn't quite believe it.

Sherlock smiled like a cat that got the cream, knowing full well what sensation John was experiencing. His mind was still reeling from the aftermath of their kiss.

John tugged Sherlock's lips to his own, again and he matched John's fervour, anticipating the assault. But this was a different kind of kiss – more exploratory than needy. It was the "getting to know you kiss"; and John bit gently on Sherlock's bottom lip, adjusting his technique according to the moan and groans that escaped the lips beneath him.

* * *

When they finally broke apart, John grinned almost apologetically as he remarked. "I've got an overwhelming tension which needs relieving," he remarked pointedly, as he pressed his clear erection against Sherlock's jittery thighs. The detective's eyes widened even more – if that was altogether possible, given that they were already as wide as saucers. "I need a cold shower," John admitted, "As I'm imagining you're not the kind of guy to jump into bed with a man right away, please excuse me," he placed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips as he clambered out from beneath him, and retreated to the bath room - a ginormous smile spread across his face as he did so.

Sherlock Holmes was immensely annoyed. Making assumptions was Sherlock's job, not John's. How dare John tell him what he did and didn't do – that was simply unacceptable. Sherlock would see to it that John didn't dare make the same mistake again, as he leapt off the sofa and raced to the bathroom, a wicked grin on his still heavily aroused face.

John Watson didn't know what he had coming to him…


End file.
